The year I turned nine, Granny dresses were everywhere. For Christmas that year, I had received my first hip hugger skirt in blue plaid with a patent leather belt and white “go go” boots. I had discovered fashion by watching American Bandstand and Hullabaloo on TV. In fourth grade, girls floated down school hallways in soft cottons and pale florals, most made by hand in accordance with the new hippie trend that I dreamed about after reading my sister’s Seventeen magazine. My Mom and I chose the Dotted Swiss, light as breath, the lantern sleeves trimmed with eyelet lace.
On my birthday morning, the dress smelled faintly of my Mom’s Bellodgia perfume, warm from the iron. When I slipped it on, I felt transformed, I was wearing a dress of my own design. Little did I know that the “Hippie” aesthetic would be a big part of my personal style for life.
That spring, we had traveled to Los Angeles for spring break. Olvera Street, a favorite of my Mom’s since her childhood days living in Southern California, was alive with color and sound. The block-long market, with bright papel picado fluttering overhead, showcased huaraches with leather soles wrapped in pairs with bright jute, and stalls with papier-mâché animals and dolls in serapes. While my parents browsed, I studied the small treasures laid out before me. I chose tiny straw party hats, their brims barely wider than a teacup, imagining them arranged just so on a table that would soon belong to me.
My birthday tea party unfolded quietly as my friends and I walked to my house after school. The party table was set with lit candles in the candelabra, a crisp white linen tablecloth, place cards, fine china luncheon plates with desert forks, tiny straw hats, and balloons with streamers. Tea steamed gently, carrying the faint bitterness of leaves softened by milk and sugar. There were small bites on tiered serving trays; savory finger sandwiches, dainty cream puffs, shortbread cookies, and tiny cherry tarts.
My party guests and I pretended to be our Moms at their weekly Bridge club, with their voices and mannerisms. We held our pinkies out as cups clinked against saucers. Tea, I discovered, was not just something you drank. It was something you experienced. It asked you to sit up straighter, speak more softly, pay attention. From that day on, tea became a thread woven through my life.
Years later, while visiting my grandmother in New York City, we went out for tea together. The city hummed beyond the windows, but inside, everything slowed. Porcelain was warm beneath my fingers. My grandmother’s voice carried stories between sips, her pauses as meaningful as her words. Tea became a way of listening.
When my daughter, Cece, requested a birthday tea, I pulled the teacups from the cupboard once more. The familiar clatter of china echoed in the kitchen. We made tiny cucumber sandwiches, cool and crisp, and arranged petit fours with their glossy icing and delicate sugared flowers. The party guests’ small hands wrapped around cups, careful and proud. Watching her host her own tea party, the feeling of déjà vu was strong, past and present sharing the same table.
Years later still, my husband and I took tea at both Liberty of London and Fortnum & Mason. The rooms were elegant, the service precise. Linen napkins, silver teapots, the deep amber glow of perfectly brewed tea. And yet, what I tasted most clearly was memory. A dress sewn with love. Straw hats chosen on a warm afternoon. A table set for a nine-year-old learning how to savor.
Tea has remained with me, not as a luxury, but as a ritual, a happy rhythm for a peaceful, quiet moment. A pause. A way of honoring moments both ordinary and extraordinary. In a world that moves quickly, tea reminds me to slow down, to notice warmth and texture and taste, to sit with what is good.
My husband and I enjoy tea so much that we have a tea garden. Matt is a magician at knowing which leaves blend beautifully together. I have a couple of favorites that I reach for in the afternoon after a busy day. We sit quietly and sip slowly, really enjoying the moment, usually in front of the fire, embracing winter hygge.
It began with a dress, a birthday, and a table set just for me. And somehow, it has followed me ever since.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
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